Post by “The Better Man” Warren Kidd on May 16, 2024 22:46:57 GMT
Paris, France. The romantic capital of Europe, if not the western world. Warren wasn’t sure what he was expecting, coming back here by himself. As far as he recalled, he had holidayed here at least twice before, both at somebody else’s behest. First it was Dawn’s, then it was Dean’s.
Both his half sister and his husband had had vastly different motivations for dragging him here of course. Dawn had insisted on soaking up the ambiance of one of the most lovestruck cities in the world whilst they were on their hike through Europe, whilst Dean had seen fit to torture him with a grand romantic gesture that was as absurd as it was cliche.
Over four years ago, on Valentine’s Eve no less, Dean Harper had dropped off a ticket at his hotel, the very same hotel he made absolutely sure he was not booked in again this time that he was here on his own. He wanted to see the city on his own terms, without the unnecessary baggage of happier memories weighing him down.
He was here for work, a few days from now he’d be in attendance at the Night of the Immortals press conference. There he would have no choice but to sit opposite Dean again and play another round of their exhausting game. A game that was still at least a couple of weeks away yet from its ultimate conclusion.
Tonight however, he needed a distraction from work, so on a whim he’d bought a ticket and made himself a last-minute addition to a singles tour group. Impulsively, he’d bundled himself into a coach full of strangers, sure to wear shades so there was less chance of him being recognised and hounded by inconsiderate but eager fans.
He still had a few weeks to go before he had absolutely no choice but to deal with that by virtue of being the new World Champion, which made it all the more crucial that he savour his freedom and relative anonymity now, whilst he still had it.
He made a deliberate effort to lose himself in the tour group, to be just another indistinguishable face in the crowd of normal and average people, as they gazed upon the yellow lights of the Eiffel Tower in awe and wonder. Sensations he felt numb to. As impressive as this landmark was, evidently it didn’t hold up too well to repeat visits.
Foolishly, part of him expected the same girl with the big smile to greet him at the entrance, like she had the last time he visited. Like four years hadn’t passed, and times hadn’t changed at all, feelings hadn’t changed at all. Instead, he was greeted by an impeccably dressed young man who may have even been handsome if he didn’t insist on absolute neutrality. He was here to do his job, nothing more.
Last time, Warren had taken the stairs and then the lift. Now, he chose the lift exclusively, valuing efficiency over unnecessary effort. Last time, he’d sat in the Macaron Bar on the second floor and dined on strawberries and champagne, such were the limits of Dean Harper’s romantic imagination.
Not that the poor bastard was entirely to blame of course. Men like Dean and Warren Harper didn’t know the first thing about true romance. They were far too damaged. Dean could only make expected overtures, rather than capture the essence of a pure and unfiltered love. The kind Warren still stupidly craved deep down, but knew now that he’d never ever get. Marriage hadn’t been the quick fix he thought it would be, no matter how desperately he tried he could not manifest the kind of love Dean needed from him.
Last time, Warren had gone above and beyond, worn a three-piece suit, really dressed himself up for the occasion. Now, a simple and plain sky blue shirt and black tie combination served him just fine. Suits were for weddings anyway, and there was at least another month to go before he had to endure the rather unique hell of one of those again.
This time, Warren made certain he avoided the Macaron Bar entirely, choosing instead to take the lift to the very top. He was then guided to the champagne bar, where he took in a full view of the city entirely at his leisure.
There were no exquisite macarons here, no fancy notes or emotionally manipulative favourite meals for him to be unwittingly seduced by. Nothing to make him weak at the knees and more susceptible to bad ideas and unpardonable sins, as Dean had engineered last time. Just him, with a full flute of absurdly overpriced champagne for him to savour.
“Be sure to get your fine ass right in and to your hotel room. Have some water before bed, will you? Wouldn’t want something untoward to happen to you, now would we?”
Bastard, Warren thought, as he drowned the bitter memory in only the finest alcohol. He swallowed his regret, it went down so much easier with drink. The way Dean licked his teeth still sent shivers down Warren’s spine, even though he really wished that it didn’t.
It was only after his third glass, Warren finally understood why he was even here.
It was so incredibly lonely at the top of the world, and he needed to get used to it.
If he couldn’t, he’d never be World Champion again. And even more importantly than that, he’d never be able to prove to Dean Harper that he didn’t need him to do everything for Warren. Dean’s protection had once been wonderfully intoxicating, but now it only made Warren feel utterly pathetic.
Warren closed his eyes and breathed deeply, stifling his tears before they began.
He knew what he had to do at Night of the Immortals.
He had to turn all his love into hate.
It was the only way he’d realise his dream again.
It was the only way he’d become so much more than his husband’s equal.
It was the only way he’d achieve his lifelong ambition.
It was the only way he’d be better than his father.
“I’m sorry Sweetness,” Warren whispered to the empty champagne flute, “I really am.”
Both his half sister and his husband had had vastly different motivations for dragging him here of course. Dawn had insisted on soaking up the ambiance of one of the most lovestruck cities in the world whilst they were on their hike through Europe, whilst Dean had seen fit to torture him with a grand romantic gesture that was as absurd as it was cliche.
Over four years ago, on Valentine’s Eve no less, Dean Harper had dropped off a ticket at his hotel, the very same hotel he made absolutely sure he was not booked in again this time that he was here on his own. He wanted to see the city on his own terms, without the unnecessary baggage of happier memories weighing him down.
He was here for work, a few days from now he’d be in attendance at the Night of the Immortals press conference. There he would have no choice but to sit opposite Dean again and play another round of their exhausting game. A game that was still at least a couple of weeks away yet from its ultimate conclusion.
Tonight however, he needed a distraction from work, so on a whim he’d bought a ticket and made himself a last-minute addition to a singles tour group. Impulsively, he’d bundled himself into a coach full of strangers, sure to wear shades so there was less chance of him being recognised and hounded by inconsiderate but eager fans.
He still had a few weeks to go before he had absolutely no choice but to deal with that by virtue of being the new World Champion, which made it all the more crucial that he savour his freedom and relative anonymity now, whilst he still had it.
He made a deliberate effort to lose himself in the tour group, to be just another indistinguishable face in the crowd of normal and average people, as they gazed upon the yellow lights of the Eiffel Tower in awe and wonder. Sensations he felt numb to. As impressive as this landmark was, evidently it didn’t hold up too well to repeat visits.
Foolishly, part of him expected the same girl with the big smile to greet him at the entrance, like she had the last time he visited. Like four years hadn’t passed, and times hadn’t changed at all, feelings hadn’t changed at all. Instead, he was greeted by an impeccably dressed young man who may have even been handsome if he didn’t insist on absolute neutrality. He was here to do his job, nothing more.
Last time, Warren had taken the stairs and then the lift. Now, he chose the lift exclusively, valuing efficiency over unnecessary effort. Last time, he’d sat in the Macaron Bar on the second floor and dined on strawberries and champagne, such were the limits of Dean Harper’s romantic imagination.
Not that the poor bastard was entirely to blame of course. Men like Dean and Warren Harper didn’t know the first thing about true romance. They were far too damaged. Dean could only make expected overtures, rather than capture the essence of a pure and unfiltered love. The kind Warren still stupidly craved deep down, but knew now that he’d never ever get. Marriage hadn’t been the quick fix he thought it would be, no matter how desperately he tried he could not manifest the kind of love Dean needed from him.
Last time, Warren had gone above and beyond, worn a three-piece suit, really dressed himself up for the occasion. Now, a simple and plain sky blue shirt and black tie combination served him just fine. Suits were for weddings anyway, and there was at least another month to go before he had to endure the rather unique hell of one of those again.
This time, Warren made certain he avoided the Macaron Bar entirely, choosing instead to take the lift to the very top. He was then guided to the champagne bar, where he took in a full view of the city entirely at his leisure.
There were no exquisite macarons here, no fancy notes or emotionally manipulative favourite meals for him to be unwittingly seduced by. Nothing to make him weak at the knees and more susceptible to bad ideas and unpardonable sins, as Dean had engineered last time. Just him, with a full flute of absurdly overpriced champagne for him to savour.
“Be sure to get your fine ass right in and to your hotel room. Have some water before bed, will you? Wouldn’t want something untoward to happen to you, now would we?”
Bastard, Warren thought, as he drowned the bitter memory in only the finest alcohol. He swallowed his regret, it went down so much easier with drink. The way Dean licked his teeth still sent shivers down Warren’s spine, even though he really wished that it didn’t.
It was only after his third glass, Warren finally understood why he was even here.
It was so incredibly lonely at the top of the world, and he needed to get used to it.
If he couldn’t, he’d never be World Champion again. And even more importantly than that, he’d never be able to prove to Dean Harper that he didn’t need him to do everything for Warren. Dean’s protection had once been wonderfully intoxicating, but now it only made Warren feel utterly pathetic.
Warren closed his eyes and breathed deeply, stifling his tears before they began.
He knew what he had to do at Night of the Immortals.
He had to turn all his love into hate.
It was the only way he’d realise his dream again.
It was the only way he’d become so much more than his husband’s equal.
It was the only way he’d achieve his lifelong ambition.
It was the only way he’d be better than his father.
“I’m sorry Sweetness,” Warren whispered to the empty champagne flute, “I really am.”
Well howdy there pardner.